


Uninhibited

by 221b_careful_what_you_wish_for



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Challenge Response, Drunk John, Drunk Kissing, Drunk Sherlock, First Kiss, Fluff and Smut, Groping, John's Birthday, Johnlock Trope Challenge, M/M, One Shot, Snogging, Tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-02-05 19:08:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1829035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for/pseuds/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's John's birthday, and Greg Lestrade is determined to get Sherlock to show up at his party -- and get the two idiots together with the help of a few rounds of drinks.</p><p>For Day 20 of the Johnlock Trope Challenge: Drunk Snogging</p>
            </blockquote>





	Uninhibited

**Author's Note:**

> Just a note that this is a series of one-shots for a challenge and these stories will be wildly different in style and tone as I try out some new things. They aren't meant to connect to each other in any way. There's a 48-hour window to write and submit these, so results may vary!

Greg Lestrade sent the text, leaning back on the barstool with a self-satisfied grin.

      _Dismembered body. Unusual case. Need your expertise._

The promise of a corpse, his pathetic plea for help -- that should have Sherlock responding in no time.

As he’d predicted, Sherlock texted back almost immediately, asking for the address. Greg sent it to him, then turned to John. “Alright, he’s on his way.”

John shook his head, raised his glass. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Greg took a long drink and wiped his mouth on his sleeve, something he wouldn’t normally do if he hadn’t already downed two quick pints. “He’ll be here.”

It was John’s birthday, and by God, Lestrade was determined that Sherlock would show up this year. Nobody worth their salt should refuse to come to their best mate’s birthday party. But best mates wasn’t the right term, was it? More like… soul mates.

Fine, he was getting soft in his middle age, Greg thought, or maybe it was having gone through a divorce or because he dealt with violence and crime everyday, but he had a deep appreciation for certain things -- rare, pure things -- when he saw them. Hell, everyone could see the chemistry that burned between John and Sherlock except for the two idiots themselves. They were wasting time, God dammit, and no one ever got extra time. What was the harm in trying to lower a few inhibitions? Just a little extra push on the first domino to get the reaction going...

So he had selected an out-of-the-way pub, had invited the usual crowd from Bart’s and the Yard, had bought the first round, and had sent the text, setting things in motion.

In another half hour the pub had grown louder and more crowded when Greg saw Molly Hooper across the room. Speaking of rare, pure things… “ 'Scuse me,” he said to John, clapping him on the shoulder as he stood. “I’ve got to go say hello to Molly."

Greg paused a moment to straighten his tie and run a hand through his hair. That’s when he felt the presence behind him, heard the menacingly deep voice in his ear.

“The dismembered body is going to be yours.”

Greg turned to Sherlock, who was looking none too pleased, his hands in his coat pockets.

“Glad you could make it, Sherlock,” Greg said, not one bit sorry for the ruse. “I’ll buy you a drink. I’ll even give you my seat.” He signaled to the barkeep to set Sherlock up with a beer, then crossed the room to greet Molly.

Sherlock glared at Lestrade’s back, then sat down next to John, glancing suspiciously at the glass set down in front of him.

John smiled. “I can’t believe you fell for that. Don’t you know what day it is?”

“It’s Thursday,” Sherlock answered.

“Yeah, but… you honestly don't remember that it’s my birthday?”

“You know there’s no room in here for that sort of trivia,” Sherlock said tersely, pointing to his own forehead.

“Oh, right, Earth, sun, birthdays, all that nonsense.” John took another drink, pointed back at him. “You’re so full of bullshit.”

Sherlock gave a small shrug, took a drink. “Maybe I remembered.”

John’s mouth quirked, trying to read him. “Well, drink up, you’re behind a few.”

The evening wore on and Greg continued to be generous, buying several more rounds for John and Sherlock. He’d done what he could. Now the rest was up to them.

“Happy birthday, John,” Greg said on his way out. “Make sure this lightweight gets home alright.”

“I’m fine,” Sherlock said, waving Greg away.

“Thanks, mate,” John shook Greg’s hand. “Er, looks like Molly’s leaving, too. Maybe you should see her home.”

“Oh, right,” Greg said, looking over his shoulder. Not a bad idea. “Right.” He made his way over to Molly again, and she smiled.

“Okay, I’m done.” John announced, standing up, the room swaying in a pleasant way. He tapped Sherlock on the shoulder. “Ready?”

“I’m… yes.” Sherlock answered. He stood, adjusted his suit jacket, every movement overly precise. He was feeling fine, quite, quite fine. He looked around for his coat, finally remembered where he’d hung it up earlier, walked very carefully over to the row of hooks and very carefully put it on.

They found the door, argued briefly outside about which direction would be the best way to go to find a cab. In the end they decided to walk for awhile, the pavement feeling oddly slanted.

They meandered past pubs and closed up shops and all-night diners, weaving a bit, shoulders bumping.

“Did you really know it was my birthday or not?” John finally asked.

Sherlock took several more steps before answering. “I remembered.”

“So you knew the text from Greg wasn’t real.”

“Oh, fake fake fake. Obviously.”

They had stopped walking and now were facing each other, the shops all shuttered, the streetlight above them burned out, long shadows casting across the pavement.

“But you came anyway.”

“Well, I…” Sherlock hunched his shoulders, looked at his feet. “I thought I should, you know… be there.”

John was quite touched by Sherlock’s gesture. He knew how much he hated crowds, the people. With a sudden burst of drunken affection, John threw his arms around Sherlock in an enormous hug.

Sherlock initially stiffened, then found himself relaxing into the embrace as John continued to hold on. It was rather nice, this… big… squishy cuddle. He didn’t really mind… John was wearing that black jacket he liked. His arms went around John, his hands resting on his back. Yes, very nice, this jacket. He moved his hands, noticing how he could feel the jut of John’s shoulder blades, the breadth of his back through the material.

For his part, John noticed how he just happened to fit exactly in the nook of Sherlock’s ribs with his cheek pressed against his neck. Mmm, this felt good. He wondered if he could just stretch up on his tiptoes and look right into those incredible eyes… and maybe slide his fingers into those curls that were always unruly at the back of his neck... and sort of reach up an inch more and tentatively touch his mouth with his own... and just taste... then gently suck on that bottom lip in a slow, lazy way...

Sherlock closed his eyes, dizzy, his hands now clasping John’s shoulders for balance, not wanting the sensation of whatever it was that John was doing to his mouth to stop because that was absolutely marvelous.

But wait, what if he tilted his head this way, opened his mouth a little more? Ah, that was good, too. And if he did this, moving his lips here... Nice... Oh -- this was new -- John’s tongue, so soft, so slick, so flickery -- ohhh… deeper…

Something more primal was being stirred up, his own tongue seeming to know what to do in response, his fingers curving around John’s neck, pulling him closer.

They stumbled a few steps back into the darkened doorway of a small shop, Sherlock pressed against the wall as the experimental kissing devolved into an onslaught of wet, mauling, all-out snogging.

Everything was spinning; Sherlock could not tell where he ended and John began, frankly. It was a churning frenzy of mouths and tongues and throaty noises, hands roaming places, groping. God… it was so wonderfully vulgar, completely uninhibited.

John pressed his body into Sherlock’s, his hands gripping him at the waist. Finding a sensitive place on his neck, he sucked on that soft, soft skin, leaving a purplish mark, making Sherlock slump in surrender, further exposing his throat. John moved his lips down his neck, then back to his mouth, wanting to experience every possible shape and form their mouths could make together, every heavy breath and small moan making him more lightheaded…

A beam of light swept across them and they froze, hands and hair and clothes askew. It was just a car passing by. Sherlock looked up in relief, and John looked down, exhaling.

John loosened his grip on Sherlock, took a small step back, but didn’t let go. “That,” he said, “was the best birthday present I’ve ever gotten.”

“I’ve never done that before,” Sherlock admitted breathlessly.

John kissed him again, drunk, horny, completely without a filter. “It was fucking perfect.” One hand went behind Sherlock's neck, the other to his crotch, as he murmured, "I'm here if there's anything…” another deep kiss, a squeeze of his hand… “else…” a curl of tongue, a stroke of fingers... “you'd like to try.”


End file.
